


Surrogate

by Emery



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Beach Sex, Commissioned Work, Consensual, Consensual Sex, Exploration, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Other, Research, Tentacle Monsters, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, sex in the name of research!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:44:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8821015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emery/pseuds/Emery
Summary: Newt's passion for the rarest of magical creatures brings him to the Polynesian Islands, where he roams the beach at night in search of an elusive beast. He doesn't find what he's looking for, but he does find something just as wonderful--a sensitive being starved for the same kind of pleasure its many limbs bestow upon Newt.
  That in itself isn’t what’s exciting about this creature. It’s what they’re capable of sniffing out that has Newt’s breath coming more rapidly. It’s smelling his emotions, the very adrenaline pumping through his veins, the curiosity that twirls unbearably in his brain. It senses Newt’s need for knowledge, and it understands him—he is pleased to become its student for the night.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iamsmaug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamsmaug/gifts).



> This work was written on commission. Remember to visit me on [my blog](http://onecalledemery.tumblr.com) for more about my work and me!
> 
> This was written as a kink meme fill. The original prompt can be found [here](http://fantasticbeasts-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/459.html?thread=9163#cmt9163).
> 
> Thank you very much to [iamsmaug](iamsmaug.tumblr.com) for giving me the opportunity to write this!

The Polynesian Islands are beautiful, really. Newt’s quite glad he came, even though it’s been almost three weeks with no sign of the two creatures he’s come searching for. It’s not _his_ fault. It can’t be. He’s checked all his sources (more than once, actually), but more importantly, he can _feel_ it. He knows that he’s right. Sure, he’s been wrong before, but how many times have his instincts proved him well? He has a sense for this. It’s what he does. It’s his passion.

That’s why he knows that, today, he’ll find one. Maybe he’ll even catch one. But he’ll definitely find it. He’ll take pictures, he’ll write notes, he’ll begin the process of befriending the creature. It will be wonderful.

At least, if nothing else, the sound of the waves lapping at the rocky shore calms his nerves and makes the expedition worthwhile this evening. It’s been a while since the sun has set, already, and Newt is utterly alone. That’s when he’ll find it, or them, if he’s lucky enough to find a whole pack. They’re nocturnal, and they like to be mostly alone. It’s why Newt hasn’t brought a light, doesn’t even use his wand to illuminate a bit of the sand and pebbles in front of his feet. He doesn’t want to put them off. Eventually, his eyes adjust—

But not well enough, because he doesn’t see his assailant coming. He only hears it (or rather, parts of it) as the slimy appendages slither along the sand towards his ankles and wrap around them, one by one.

 _Don’t panic,_ he tells himself. Newt knows exactly what this is. It’s not what he’s looking for, but he’s only ever seen one in another wizard’s notes. Actually, he feels incredibly lucky to have come across something so majestic completely by accident.

Something like a muffled whistle tickles his ears. Then, there’s the distant sound of—is that breathing?

The tentacles don’t loosen. Actually, they do quite the opposite as they creep up his legs above the knee. Newt sees their tips, now, rounded and covered in tiny, pitted nodules that aren’t quite like the suction cups the muggles are used to in their own tentacled, ocean beasts. Newt knows better. He knows that, when the fat tips of the tentacles wriggle their way into the waistband of his pants, that they’re smelling him.

That in itself isn’t what’s exciting about this creature. It’s _what_ they’re capable of sniffing out that has Newt’s breath coming more rapidly. It’s smelling his emotions, the very adrenaline pumping through his veins, the curiosity that twirls unbearably in his brain. It senses Newt’s need for knowledge, and it understands him—he is pleased to become its student for the night.

It must be able to read his intentions, because another limb floats up towards his wrist and takes his field notes away from him. The creature isn’t irreverent, doesn’t fling the book and Newt’s quill into the evening tide. Instead, it holds the book in front of Newt’s face for a moment before tucking it away quietly behind a rock several meters away. It wants Newt’s full attention, but it’s not selfish in asking for it.

_Hm, considerate._

Newt would have made note of it. Actually, he reaches for his back pocket with his free hand—before the beast confiscates the spare memo pad, too, and pulls Newt’s hand away in the same motion.

“Oh. Apologies.” He speaks out loud to the thing, having no idea really whether or not it has any way to understand him. Then again, it seems likely that it can, given that it’s sniffing out his emotions right now. The tentacles curl around his wrists, up to his elbows, reach his shoulders, until the tips graze his cheeks and ears on both sides of his head. The sensation of it reading him so closely makes him lightheaded, somehow. Hell, what could be the mechanism of _that_? How is it making him _dizzy_?

It, at least, continues to show ample amounts of respect for Newt, because it catches him with a tentacle supporting his lower back, then lifts him up by all four limbs while giving him a gentle squeeze around his middle.

Newt isn’t afraid. If he was, he knows that it would release him. These are gentle creatures, which is exactly why he doesn’t expect the tentacles within his waistband to slip bluntly up and down the shaft of his cock.

 _Oh, adept with those things, aren’t you?_ It seems that it’s using additional, smaller appendages to assist its larger limbs in the same function that a primate might use its opposable thumbs. It makes short work of Newt’s belt buckle despite the width of its limbs. Newt doesn’t understand. He feels the crisp, salty ocean air tickling his bare legs and breezing along his dick that’s—oh, suddenly erect? He didn’t realize that it was having such an effect on him, but of course it is, when the end of one tentacle is opening up like a mouth to draw Newt’s flushed tip inside.

“A-ah, ah, thank you, darling,” Newt breathes. “V-very kind of you.” Really, he feels honored. He doesn’t know what this means—how could this creature have such knowledge of human sexuality? This could bear so much insight into its own reproductive habits. Oh, how Newt wishes he could take notes.

Then again, he’s sure this is something he won’t forget.

Before Newt knows it, he’s watching his pants and shirt be folded and placed gently upon the same boulder where his notebook rests, and he is entirely bare before it. With no clothes to separate his skin from the unique texture of its limbs, both he and the creature are able to understand each other better. There’s a connection, there, no doubt, and he lets himself relax in its solid but gentle grip.

The creature draws him nearer to the ocean waves lapping at the shore and rests him on the sand amongst the tide. It’s still shallow, where they lay together, ten or twelve appendages sliding over every inch of Newt’s naked skin. Each time a wave approaches, it makes sure to lift his head with the tentacle on the back of his neck so that he doesn’t get a suffocating mouthful of warm, frothy saltwater.

Newt allows himself to relax, even though he can barely keep from smiling and giggling from the sheer impossibility of it all. Few people have even _spotted_ this creature, but he guesses that he’s the only one who has ever, well—he peers down at the tentacle swallowing his cock, the one fondling his balls in the writhing curls of its length, the two more that are slithering towards his nipples to cover them in a coat of thin, heated slime— _fucked_ one. It feels disrespectful to think of this encounter as such. This is nothing so lewd as that—this beautiful beast is only being friendly. It’s not thirsty for sex the same way that humans are. Likely, it’s only assuming that Newt enjoys this.

Most humans do.

It’s also not exactly _wrong_.

“T-thank you, love,” he breathes. The creature is gorgeous. Every time he gets a glimpse of its skin, he notes something more about it. There’s its coloration, dark but gleaming like an oil slick. There’s the swirling pattern of its scales (Newt only hopes that he can remember that pattern exactly when he’s drawing diagrams, later). And then, there’s the marvelous—

He cries out. Well, then. It seems to have taken quite the interest in his arsehole.

Newt imagines that this must be the way a tongue would feel, lathing against the tight ring of muscle and trying to slowly, gently poke its way in. At first, he can’t bring himself to unclench, but it has its way of coaxing him into relaxation so that it can slip inside him with one of the smaller tentacles it’s been using to assist with more intricate activities. His occasional murmurs of appreciation turn into much louder (and lewder) moans and whines that only encourage the creature to take its mission further.

It reads his arousal and learns from every sharp spark of pleasure that jolts down his spine. The same way that he might behaviorally experiment to learn about his beloved magical creatures, this beast experiments with him. It teases and toys until it knows exactly what Newt loves best, and then it—

“Y-you’re not— _ah_ —planning on stopping, are you?” He’s not sure why it would. It wants something from Newt, is waiting to feel the spike of adrenaline that comes with orgasm. An idea wriggles its way into Newt’s brain, somehow making its way between his clouded thoughts, and Newt remembers what he’s read. This creature reproduces asexually. Its pleasure is derived from the feelings of other animals, other beings—it cannot experience the same feelings on its own.

He is blood lucky to have been chosen for this. Right through the tearing spasms of his climax, he still thinks. He is determined to remember every moment of this, no matter how many times the creature teases him to the edge.

It turns out that the number is four.

Four times Newt’s body clenches, his toes curl, and his glorious beast sucks up every ounce of pleasure.

It’s all Newt can take before he drifts into sleep with the sound of the ocean in his ears.

Later, when he wakes, he’s dressed and lying on sand warmed by the morning sun. To his delight, the notebooks on the rock beside him are filled with notes, written by the creature itself. Newt has never scrambled more quickly to find a book of spells on magical beast translation.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember to visit me on [my blog](http://onecalledemery.tumblr.com) for more about my work and me!


End file.
